


At your Service, M'Lord

by p_totel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Castration, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Rambling, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sleep Deprivation, as he listens to northern siege in winterfell, basically theons nerves ate him alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_totel/pseuds/p_totel
Summary: Ramsay gets captured by the Ironborn fleet; quickly presenting himself as his dead servant - Reek. Theon is struggling to keep control over himself and the Winterfell. But it's not easy when nerves are eating at him.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Reek, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy/Reek
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

They shoved Ramsay on the floor. Strong masculine hands gave him a harsh tug as they tried to untangle themselves from the messy hair. The boy gave an annoyed grunt - less out of pain and more out of discontent. It wasn’t enough that he had to throw himself in dirt when he sent Reek away in his pink lordly cloak, but now these men also saw fit to ruin his hair. The man behind him growled, his fingers captured by strong black strings and yanked again, finally pulling himself free. Ramsay gave a grin. Not even his hair went without a fight. Good girl.

“So. This is him. The man they call Reek?” he heard a sneer from above.  
When he rose his head, a young man, dark of hair and eyes stared at him with a cocky grin on his face. Lips wrinkled in a corner of his mouth. Trembling - just a bit. Hiding shaken nerves.

“Indeed, m’lord.” Ramsay nodded dutifully, immediately reverting to his old peasant accent which his Lord Father tried so hard to get out of him.

“Reek. What kind of name is that?” the man laughed, a bit too fast, a bit too loud. “I should just put you out of your goddamn misery. We got the Bolton bastard anyway.” the young man lifted his hand and awed at the huge red ruby on his finger. His hands shook - just slightly.  
So that’s where it went, Ramsay noted bitterly, staring at his prized ring. Well, rest in peace, Reek.

“I can be useful, m’lord. Know them lands. I don’t recognize yer banners, m’lord, but anyone attempting to…” he faked a nervous and humble headturn.  
“To?” the man persisted.  
“To free us commonfolk from The Leech Lord is an ally, m’lord. I know them lands. Know the men, the inn where they drink. Terrorize folk girls.” Ramsay continued, making sure to shake up his voice a bit.

He should’ve joined a fuckin travelling show or something. Whatever, acting was as political as it was an entertaining skill. The man above him twitched, his pathetically-attempted secure stance faltering.

“Thank you, m’lord,” Ramsay continued and leaned down to kiss the lordling’s boots (for good measure), “for killing the Bolton Bastard.”  
It felt so funny to say that, and if his life hadn’t been in danger, with three swords around his back, he would’ve cackled.

The young man above him - really, no older than twenty-one perhaps, wavered and swallowed. Obviously unprepared for this. He didn’t rehearse this act in front of his men.  
So to put him out of the uncomfortable spot, Ramsay continued with his little show.

“A beast in a human skin, m’lord. Hunts the girls for sport, undresses them and lets them run in the forest…” he lowered his voice to a whisper and felt all three men behind him lean closer in curiosity. Well, if anyone knew what Ramsay Bolton did it was Ramsay himself. “Hunts ‘em with his dogs, m’lord. Often brings me with himself. I’ve seen it. A cruel, cruel mad man… And if they give a good chase, m’lord, he kills them quickly. If not…”

The young lord above him lost the entire facade he had put on and leaned a bit forward, eyes wide in discomfort.

“Rapes ‘em, m’lord…”

“That’s barely a reason to call him a beast!” the man laughed nervously and pulled back, fear obvious in his raspy voice. Worried he won’t seem tough enough in front of his men. Ah, what an easy read, Ramsay noted. He knew exactly what to do now.

“No, m’lord. After that, he skins ‘em. Alive.” he whispered, barely above hearing level.  
That seemed to freeze the entire suite.

“That’s some bullshit. Skinning? Flaying? That’s forbidden.” the lord usurpator tried to laugh it away but the tremble couldn’t be masked. “Traitor Eddard Stark forbade it years ago.”

“Boltons have a flayed man on their banners, m’lord, with a reason. I’ve seen it with may own two eyes.” Ramsay persisted. “He… he was a terrifying man. He hunted down my sister. I watched her die and scream. A young thing, lovely, she was waiting for a captain from Islands…” he trailed off.

“A captain?” the man frowned. “From Iron Islands?”

So, Ramsay guessed correctly. Greyjoys seized the Winterfell and no word has ever come to Dreadfort. Well, smart, if he was in their place he would shoot all the ravens as well. Nobody would find out.  
Perhaps it was a lucky case he and Reek had found themselves out that day.  
...Well, not that lucky for Reek, but Ramsay seemed to slide by pretty well so far.

“Yeah, a captain m’lord… had a boat, promised to wed her… Wouldn’t know more. Doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. Bastard hunted her down, but not to skin or rape her.”

‘But…?’ was a tense question present on everyone’s faces.

“Took her to his Lord Father.” Ramsay finished, making his response as humble and timid as possible. “And son is just a shadow of his cruelty. Trust me, m'lord, Lord Bolton… I've seen him.”

Like hell I am, Ramsay thought ironically. Motherfucker would never remember this shit. I’m the one they should be afraid of, not my Father on his deathbed from loss of blood from those disgusting leeches.

“You can kill me, m’lord.” Ramsay bowed his head, catching the word before any of the others got ready to react, “But if you’d let me show you the lands first… smallfolk would be eternally grateful. Would cooperate.” He dramatically rose his eyes. “We all want to see The Leech Lord fall.”

Whoever of men wanted to say something before, was now left silent. What a gamble he had just pulled, Ramsay thought. He licked his lips, pleased like a cat. But the Ironborn group seemed to miss that little sign of cunningness.

The shoulders of the young man above him, decorated with a gold chain and his (rudely stolen) rubies, seemed like they were under some great weight, weight of the entire world.

“Free him.” he swallowed in the end, trying to sound authorative. “Let’s see what he has to say.”


	2. Chapter 2

In following days, Ramsay was mostly just kept around like a broom or something. It was boring but stealthy, he guessed. It sure gave him plenty of time to actually count the troops and take notes about the men. Wow, so it was true. Squids indeed couldn’t swim on land.

It was a mix of funny and pathetic how uninterested men were in the orders of their superior. The farce of “an Ironborn army” made Ramsay snort. What a shitty defense of the castle. His father’s army would have no trouble reclaiming it within a day.

Good news travel fast, bad news even faster. It wasn’t a matter of ‘will the North find out Ironborn have infiltrated the Winterfell’ but when.

One night, Ironborn men took Ramsay out to actually deliver some of those Bolton soldiers he had promised. He managed to recognize a few men at the tavern that lingered there, remains of Bolton army standing by Winterfell, ready to ride to at the orders of their liege lord. 

He sold them out with little care. While Ironborn soldiers were beating the lot of them outside, he managed to grab one and pull him to the side.

“Run to Lord Bolton”, he whispered, “and tell him his Bastard is not dead. The Ironborn hold the castle; the defense is weak, men quarrel amongst each other, they are mad at the Iron Prince for stranding them in North.”  
If the man had recognized the eyes on stranger’s face - the same eyes of the Lord he served - he said nothing. Simply nodded.

“Who should I say sends the message?” he swallowed, hearing the heads get cut off outside.

“Reek. Bastard’s servant.”  
And then he thought a bit.

“And tell lord Bolton the Bastard has the Kraken prince leashed on his side.” he grinned wide.

Ramsay hated having to call himself that way; but even he could swallow the pride, press down the toxic feeling of unworthiness and carry on.  
If his father heard what he had done… he would be praised. Maybe even legitimized, What was a few insults for the glory that was coming his way?

***  
The Greyjoy prince seemed to grow more and more restless every day. Ramsasy, having gained some trust, was let to roam around the halls as he pleased, but he was being summoned in Lord’s chambers more and more often.  
On outside it seemed like talking strategy and Ramsay giving out oh-so-important Bolton positions, but really, the Prince seemed to want someone to confide into who… wasn’t one of his men.

Because his men were growing more and more irritable with each dawn. He couldn’t show weakness in front of them but Reek - Reek was an entirely different story.

And Ramsay took peaceful but still pleasure and content in seeing the young man pace around the room, darkness under his tired eyes deepening more and more. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just paced around, muttering something under his breath like a madman. Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Winterfell.

“M’lord”, Ramsay finally cleared out his throat, “you seem stressed.”

“Of course I’m stressed!” the young man exploded and swung his hand, throwing one of the goblets on the ground. It jumped off with a metal clacker. He stared at the object with burning hate, his teeth gritting. “There is a siege outside, my sister is not arriving and I have fifty men! Of course I’m stressed!”

Silence fell over them. The Kraken sighed and pinched his nose, loudly exhaling.

“Would you like me to bring you a girl, m’lord?” Ramsay broke the stillness.

Greyjoy gave him a look. “What girl. We don’t even fucking have any!” he kicked the goblet in even more fury, and the thing trashed against the wall corner.

“M’lord, you must calm down.” Ramsay strode over and grabbed prince’s hand. “You can’t lead yer men like that. Don’t kick things.” he said patiently.  
It was amusing to watch the lordling calm down like a child, no matter that he was older than Ramsay for a couple years. Greyjoy swallowed and nodded, his eyes wide, glossy from fever.

“It’s fine. You’re just stressed.” Ramsay continued, tightening his grip and sliding his hand into older boy’s breeches.  
Greyjoy gave him a startled look and tried to move away, but Ramsay held him firmly.

“It will be good. Come on. Nobody will know. Let me help you, m’lord.” he breathed quietly as he worked his way down, all the way to Ironborn’s cock which, starved from touch and stress immediately hardened.

Greyjoy gave a pleased sigh and relaxed against the wall, his eyes falling shut.  
He rolled his hips a bit into Ramsay’s hand who worked his fingers along his length, up and down, massaging the prostate and working him up.

“Get down.” Greyjoy breathed out, regaining his senses and pushed Ramsay on his knees. “A whore, that’s what you are.” If he was uncomfortable, Ramsay thought, the man surely got over that quickly. How funny.

“Indeed, m’lord.”

“God, you’re so ugly.” Greyjoy sneered as he fished out his cock. “But you have cock-sucking lips. So thick, and full and wide…” he trailed off as he grabbed Ramsay for jaw to force his dick between his teeth.

Ramsay wanted to roll his eyes. Fucking Gods, this guy was an embarrassment. He obediently started sucking.  
It’s not like Ramsay had sucked any dicks in his life, but he did have his own sucked plenty of times so he figured out what to do.

“Such a slut… you know all Northern girls would kill to be in your place? That many of them have been? You should consider it a privilege, to suck my cock like this…” the lordling was getting heated up.

His goddamn cock is the first thing to go when I get my hands on him, Ramsay noted bitterly.

“You, just a common peasant, a traitor of North, offering yourself to an Ironborn usurpator…” Greyjoy giggled to himself. “Fuck, you’re good!” he yelped after a strong wet suck from Ramsay’s mouth.

“Maybe I take you with me to the Islands. Would you like that? I could keep you like my salt groom…” he tightened the grip on Ramsay’s hair and sharply whistled.

The sight of Theon Greyjoy cockily praising himself and trying to seem like Westeros’ most sought-after bacheleor would be comical if it wasn’t pathetic. He continued to mutter ‘slut, slut, slut’ under his breath, but it wasn’t like Ramsay was the one pushing his cock the first second he got a chance - and not only in a girl, but another man’s throat. It seemed that prince was not as picky as he seemed.

Greyjoy was now fucking Ramsay’s throat in earnest, acting like it was a divine cunt and not mouth of some bastard. The undignified force of his movements made the job easier for Ramsay who was finally able to dissociate from the entire situation.

Greyjoy spent with a loud groan and bumped against the wall, his chest rising and feeling.

Ramsay swallowed and wiped his mouth.  
“Fuck.” Lord silently breathed out before stumbling to his bed and unceremoniously dropping himself on it. “Fuck. I’ll kill every single Northman outside.” he mumbled, eyes wide.

And then his eyelids slowly fell down.

His breathing evened out, sheer exhaustion taking over him.

Ramsay furrowed his brows in a confused smile and laughed. Everything was over so quickly. The guy got his dick spent and then fell to sleep, for the first time after a few days. Hell, Ramsay wouldn’t even need fifty men to win over Winterfell with their captain like the man in front of him.  
He relaxed in a fancy chair near the fireplace as another siege trumpet echoed through the night. Theon, deep in peaceful and dreamless sleep, didn’t hear it.


	3. Chapter 3

Theon Greyjoy woke up well-rested. Or, at least, better rested than any of the past two fortnights. It felt like he had slept through the entire winter - through all the atrocities that happened. Burned boys, Winterfell takeover, siege trumpets, Robb Stark’s face - the face of his one true brother judging him from the flames in the fireplace every time he looked at them, whispering: I trusted you, I trusted you, I trusted you.  
It was like he skipped over all of it.

He tried to stretch his arms; ready to stand up, to face his men and say: let’s march. Let’s fuck every Northman outside the gates, let’s fuck their mothers and their wives, and let’s spear their sisters with our Ironborn dicks because I’m so done with this shit. Because Winterfell is mine. Mine. Mine.

He tried to get up, but he choked - something promptly pulled him back in the pillows. His breath got ragged as the world started coming out of blur. What? What was happening? He shook his wrists, but to no avail. He was cuffed for the bedpost.   
Panic overtook him. He tried to get up once again but - a collar? - a collar around his throat pulled him back down.

Reek sat casually across the bed in the comfortable chair, on one of the Stark’s fancy furry quills. Eating an apple like nothing was happening.

“Oh. You’re awake.” he noticed and grinned, the knife peeling the skin of the fruit. “Wonderful! Just in time.”

“I- what-.” Theon croaked and once again tried to get up, failing to do so.  
“Reek-. What’s happening?”

A trumpet echoed. Then another. And third. And fourth. And fifth. Soon it was a cacophony of noise, mingling with irritated shouts of Ironborn soldiers beneath the window, most of them cussing Greyjoy out loud, together with his mother and whole ancestry. “Where the fuck is his sister? She is the true leader, not this sad ass wipe of her brother...” were groans in the yard.

“Reek! Untie me, now. Your lord, your prince, whom you swore loyalty to-” Greyjoy trashed once more against the chains like a wild animal, furious at being locked in a cage.

“Oh. Blah blah blah. Prince this, prince that. Besides, do I smell like I reek to you? I had a bath and all while you were conked out.” Ramsay said in a lazy, drawn out voice and got up. He carelessly threw the apple core away.

Theon stared at him with furious and burning wide eyes as chatter of his men, disappointed and angry mixed in the yard.

“You-.”

The trumpets echoed again and Ramsay leaned over the window.  
“Ah. A symphony to my ears.” he pleasantly said. “See those?”

Theon trashed against the cuffs.  
Ramsay turned around.  
“Oh. Pardon, m’lord,” he uttered the last words with mockery, “you can’t see them like that. Let me help you.” he smiled warmly and walked over to the bed.

“Oh, I forgot about this.” Ramsay said in faux-sorry voice as he stared at Theon’s hands, tightly balled into fists. He forcefully grabbed one, opened the stiff palm enough to forcefully pull the ruby ring off. “I’ll be taking this back. Thanks for keeping it for me. I was really worried I won’t be getting it back.” Ramsay slipped it on his own finger and rose it in the air, marvelling at the shine of the noble stone.

The shouting and thumping outside got louder and louder. Gates of Winterfell were being hit repeatedly with the battering ram - each hit threatening to break the gates more and more.

“It’s a pity, good old Reek. I loved the guy. Ah, I should probably get my cloak somewhere too. And my earring.” Ramsay spun around himself and noticed his pink cloak hung on the wall.  
“I give you props for this, prince Squid, this is a good joke.” he giggled. Theon had put it up in such manner as an ironic nod to how ‘Boltons hang the skins of their enemies’.

Ramsay pulled it off and was pleased to find his earring pinned on it as well. “I missed it.”

The world tore apart in front of Theon’s eyes. It seemed like the ceiling started crumbling down along with the thumps of the wooden log hitting again and again against the gate. Everything was coming down, falling. The furniture. The last clutches of hope Theon had. Winterfell was falling. Revenge, pride, delusions - all of it was slipping through his fingers like sand; like sand in a sand clock, ticking time which flowed with no regard for one little Theon in the world. Gold. Rubies. Boltons. Starks. The hatred and melancholy of this place where he grew up. His victory.  
Things have been cracking for a while now, but the cracks were widening.

“The Bastard.” he whispered, almost bewildered. “You-.”  
He didn’t get to finish as Ramsay’s fist collided with his face.

“I hate that word.” he growled. “And right now, when I’m about to be so kind to you. There is a show outside, and you, my prince… have the best seat.”

With this, Ramsay grabbed the leash of the collar and pulled it so hard Theon choked, tight leather meeting his Adam’s apple and chaffing it. One of his hands got uncuffed but before he even got to react, it was quickly cuffed again behind his back. If he even managed to think to fight it would’ve been impossible.  
Ramsay took good care to tie his legs with a sturdy rope, like one of the mermaids that he hoped, all the way until now, would wait for him in the Drowned Hall.

He was hauled to the window, Ramsay’s grip hard in his hair.

“You see those banners, right there?” Ramsay whispered and pointed in the distance.  
Theon’s eyes followed the pudgy finger.  
“Those are Bolton banners.” long-haired bastard wickedly grinned.

Tall red banners with a skinned man flew in the light breeze. Horse gallop was getting louder and louder, and shouts outside the gates more and more prominent. Thump, thump, went the log, toooot, accompanied the trumpet. Theon wanted to scream.  
And so he did. But the sound got drowned out.

Finally, the gates flew open and an army of Northerners marched in, angry and ready for a battle. Theon watched his men grab weapons while cursing and repeating the only name they could: Fucking Theon Greyjoy, may his seed never sprout a new life, may he drown in the Drowned hell, the fucker we are all here because of, the asshole that got us all to defend some castle in middle of goddamn nowhere, away from home, away from sea.

When the Northern army surged in - chaos ensued. Theon watched in horror as angry men of the North attacked his Ironborn army; brutally stabbing anything in the way. Axes, swords, spiky hammers. The Ironborn gave a fair resistance, but the North burnt with rage - their enemy was the army of Theon the Turncloak, of the man who burnt down the Stark children. An insult and a slap to their faces. Usurpator. Traitor. Murderer.

“I always loved public spectacles like this.” Ramsay pleasantly sighed, hugging the Greyjoy captain around his shoulders and shaking him a bit, like they were old friends. Theon’s mouth was barely open in shock.

A trumpet echo signed the end of the battle. A few moans of dead Krakens on the floor which Northerners stabbed, in some gesture of annoyed mercy.

Shock finally kicked in and Theon screamed, trashing more in Ramsay’s tight grip. The inhuman sound that broke from his throat sounded like a dying howl, but was quickly cut off by a particularly hard tug at the dog collar around his neck.  
“Have some dignity.” Ramsay said casually and turned around, pulling Theon Greyjoy behind on a leash. Prince, prior Lord of Winterfell - stumbled over his feet as Ramsay unlocked the door and calmly led him down.

Northern chill hit their faces as Ramsay exited with a relaxed step in his feet. His pink cloak whirled around him, flying above the muddy ground as he held his head high. He knew he was here. He knew he came to see it himself.

His lord father, Roose Bolton, sat atop of his horse, his eyes small and cold, apathetic.  
It was true he rolled his eyes when news of Ramsay’s captivity reached his ears. “Incompentent snake”, he pitifully sighed, but figured it was still an useful information the Bastard brought him. Men count, Winterfell being taken, ravens being dead, what else not. At least the boy was good for something.

“Well. I’ll be damned. You indeed…” Roose said in flat voice as he stared at his son who had a huge childish grin on his face, “leashed the Kraken prince to your side.”

Ramsay chuckled at his own joke and kicked the dirt with his boot.  
"I said I did, didn't I?"

“Not a bad job. I was sure you were killed.” continued his lord father as he looked over the ruins of Winterfell with disinterest. The way he said it made it clear he didn’t really care either way. Whether Ramsay turned out to be dead or alive; he didn’t see either of the options as particularly bad or good.

“Will I get my last name now?” Ramsay pressed on and tugged Theon closer.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Roose’s voice suddenly turned into a whip. “But, since you’re alive, and we have a valuable hostage here…” he leaned his head a bit, taking in the ruined appearance of Theon Greyjoy.

“I’m riding South at Northern King’s orders.” Roose spoke and looked towards the southern hills. “With most of the army present in front of you. You can take a few troops and ride back home."

Lord Bolton's eyes resembled glass at that moment; staring far away and mulling something over in his head.

"I am granting you the responsibility of being the acting lord of Dreadfort in my stead.” he brought the eyes back to his dark haired pudgy bastard.

Ramsay’s lips spread once again. Acting lord of Dreadfort.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

“I won’t disappoint you, father.” he said in a serious voice.  
Roose didn’t reply to this, instead opting to turn his horse away. Ramsay always managed to disappoint one way or the other so he decided to smoothly skip over his son’s half-promise and give it no attention.

The rest of the army marched South and Ramsay watched them leave.

“Well.” he pulled Theon harshly once again, so hard the lord fell to the ground, “We should get going. You can see more of the North this way, since you seemed to be so curious about it.”

Theon lost consciousness. Everything went black. As black as all the ravens he shot just a few fortnights ago.  
Black as Ramsay’s hair.


	4. Chapter 4

Theon woke up on a saltire. Sharp breath cut his lungs when he inhaled in desperation - like a child coming into the world. Like Theon Greyjoy coming to his senses.

He looked around himself in fear, everything blurry. Memories trailed to him - Winterfell, wolf quilts, Bran and Rickon Stark escaping, a man named Reek swearing his loyalty, and then touching him, and then, at last he remembered - trumpets. Trumpets of siege echoing through bright day. Clash of metal againsnt metal and his Ironborn men shouting and screaming as a hoard of Northerners made their way in the Winterfell yard.

His breath quickened and he turned his head around. He was in a dark place. Dark and damp greyness illuminated only by faint torches and milky-white lightness from an tiny, tiny window. He trashed against the wood, his hands firmly tied to it.

"Oh come on. Calm down." a voice said, dragged out.  
Theon turned his head to it.

"Reek." he whispered in realization.  
And then a fist hit him so hard his head got knocked against the wood.

"I'm sure we've already discussed that." the man sighed.

The little wheels in Theon's head started spinning.

"The Bastard-" he whispered, his voice like faint wind. He didn't even get to finish it as another blow came to his face, this time cracking his jaw.

"Do not. Call. Me. That." the voice was now cold.

Theon coughed and spluttered blood. Everything was spinning around him. The ceiling of the dungeon came rushing down and the floor flew up, and he slung on the saltire as left and right switched places.

"Where- where are we?" he croaked after dizziness settled in.  
Ramsay laughed, like it was the dumbest question ever asked.

"I can't even believe this." he laughed in a raspy voice. "You know who I am. If I am son of Roose Bolton, if an army with a flayed man waving on their banners came and took your pathetic fishermen lot down - then where the fuck are we, prince Theon? Dorne?"

Theon felt close to throwing up. It was like a nightmare. He must wake up soon, he must- he will wake up and then, his men will be in the courtyard, and trumpets will echo, and Asha will-.

"You know, no offense, I wouldn't let you even keep goats, let alone take care of an entire kingdom. A prince of fucking what? Dumbass town?" Ramsay snorted and sprawled himself on the chair in front of the saltire. He laughed quietly at himself. Dumbass town. What a good one.

It was then that Theon realized his position in this whole ordeal.  
"You took me as a hostage." he said, more for himself than anyone else.

Ramsay laughed once again with full lungs and started clapping. "Amazing! Who knew you were that smart?"

A man's words echoed through Theon's head. 'A valuable hostage'. Uttered by a man on a horse while the ugly Bastard dragged him through the courtyard, while he was still in disbelief of events occuring in front of him. But words echoed somewhere distantly.  
He cleared his throat.  
"Hostage or not, I am still a lord. I demand to see Lord Bolton." he said with as much dignity as possible. His arms were going numb, his shoulder discs were threatening to be pulled out.

The ugly man in front of him, with his broad nose, his blotchy face and distastefully flashy red cape sneered. " _I_ am Lord Bolton."

"A Snow." Theon grinned through his bloody mouth. This time, a backhand spun his head to the side and he gasped as a tooth flew out. He felt another one loosen.

"Not a fast learner." Ramsay gritted his teeth, staring at his prisoner. Annoying. He was counting all the ways to make Greyjoy pay. Pay for his insults, pay for his dumbass smiles, the joke with his cape, the humiliation. And even on that fucking saltire, the lordling found fit to position himself above Ramsay.  
But this time, it was Ramsay's turn to hold the knife, and to throw him on the knees, and to do all the things his men did to him, and to-. He felt his jaw being tense enough to bite through stone and he forced himself to stop.

Young boy took in a deep breath despite his boiling blood. To calm himself down. Maybe Father wasn't all that wrong about those fucking leeches. There is art to breaking a man. Silence - silence in head and in revenge and in words.

Theon didn't really know how dangerous Ramsay Bolton might be when he's silent.

"Come on." he broke the silence that came over him like a fleeting firefly and spread his big hands. "We are friends, aren't we? We have a connection, mutual trust-"

"You betrayed me!" Theon shouted in anger, apalled by the choice of words. "Trust?! What?"

"-we know each other, what we like, what we need. Alright?" Ramsay circled around. At last he stopped and leaned over to softly caress prince's face.  
"I'm sorry your little revenge didn't succeed. I mean. I don't really like those Starks either. They'll be happy to hear they got their little castle back though."

Theon spat on him.  
"Winterfell is mine!" he screamed. "It's mine, it's mine, I took it and I'll get it back-."  
This time Ramsay just lightly slapped him, to shut him up.

"M'lord. You need to calm down." he said peacefully.  
The old accent - the safe accent - made Theon's breath heavy and deep. Calming him down. Soothing.

Ramsay ran his hand down the bare chest; muscle tense under his fingers. Theon shuddered at cold touch.

"Don't be so nervous. Your little playtime at Winterfell is over now. Hear that? No more trumpets." Ramsay showed around with his finger and Theon followed it, his breath ragged.

"I get it, you are in an unfamiliar position. Weird dungeon, tied to a saltire. Must be uncomfortable. Well, I know I felt uncomfortable when your men threw me down in such a nasty manner." he continued making his way down, down, all to Theon's breeches.

Tied on a saltire, at hands of an enemy, in sheer terror, pain and confusion - his dick still betrayed him. Theon uncomfortably buckled up his hips, more into Ramsay's hand. A moan escaped his lips.

Ramsay chuckled. He couldn't make this shit up if he wanted to.  
He slid his palm even more down.

"You're just a bit stressed. Tense. All your plans fell through, your daddy will think you're even more of a disappointment than he already does, your men have been slaughtered... it all makes a man kind of. Jittery." Ramsay undid his cloak and dropped to his knees.

Theon tried to trash once again, this time a cracked sob breaking out of him.

"Calm down. I can't let you run around Dreadfort like this. You'll embarrass yourself."

At these words Theon stopped trashing and swallowed his own snot and tears.  
"You'll untie me?" he whispered.

"By Old Gods and New ones, I swear." Ramsay put a hand on his heart and untied Theon's breeches. Light material fell down around his knees. "I mean. You're a valuable hostage. You've said so yourself."

"And besides", he continued, "we are old friends at this point. It isn't personal at all, lord Greyjoy." Ramsay said offhandedly as he started massaging the half-hard cock. "I'd get you a girl but... you are a bit upset. Don't want 'em seeing you like this." he leaned over and kissed the tip. Greyjoy groaned and inhaled and tried to buck up his hips, desperately, despite the position he found himself in.  
Ramsay gave him a good, long lick.

"You like this, huh? It's kind of humiliating, you know. Like, you got there, got on that chair, and then, the first place you pushed your dick into was some dirty peasant's mouth. While you paraded all around with those Kraken symbols." Ramsay cackled, continuing to lick up and down.

Theon's breath sped up. His chest was rising up and down now, eyes wide.

When Ramsay took him in mouth, he firmly shut them in pleasure. Right. Right, maybe this wasn't so bad.

Ramsay worked his tongue, this time with more finesse than back at Winterfell. Revenge isn't bitter - it's salty, kind of, and like human flesh. And it's sweet. So very sweet.  
He let go of his dick, and it came out of his mouth with a wet sound. The saliva still stuck on it, from the tip to Ramsay's mouth, a warm and slick coat.

"But you know, no matter how humiliating it was for you," he said, his voice full of fake and mocking pain, "it was even more painful for me. To be on knees, me, a lord?"  
This time Theon said nothing in reference to Ramsay claiming his status so carefree.

"To suck you off? To have another man's penis in my mouth? Don't get me wrong, I'm really not into that, but the way you treated me..." he trailed off. "Look, it's really your own fault."  
Theon's shame was too strong to argue.

And then Ramsay procured a knife from his lap with a heavy sigh, like of an executioner prepared to deliver a heavy sentence, far away from his heart.

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait, what are you doing-" Theon gasped, his eyes going wide. He tried to pull away, his cock still hard, blood flowing through it, betrayed by warm touch- his major downfall, his loss, his-.

"This thing. This thing here. You relay too much on it." Ramsay pointed at it with the sharp tip. "You could never be a general that way."

"No, please-"

"Oh. Lord Greyjoy. This is for your own good." Ramsay leaned over and softly kissed the tip, like he was saying goodbye to an old companion.

And then the knife brightly flashed and sliced the air up, and with air-  
blood started gushing between Theon's legs and first he saw it.  
Then he saw Ramsay holding his cut off member.

And at last he felt it.  
And then - he screamed, loud enough for the Dreadfort to hear him, for the North to hear him, for the entire Westeros to hear the pain in his throat and his lungs.

Ramsay was already up on his knees, throwing the cut off pillar up and down, catching it like a toy with a pleased grin.  
"And now, my promise." he said casually and ripped the restraints from Theon's hands.

Lord Greyjoy fell down with hoarse screams and immediately closed his legs, pushing his hands between them to stop the bleeding, his voice getting more and more raspy as screams escaped his lungs one by one, multiplying and drowning out any other sound, like some kind of sick symphony.

The last thing he saw was Ramsay's face above him, his eyes pleasantly closed and breath stilled.  
"Ah. Welcome home, Reek." he sung.

And then Theon fainted.


End file.
